


Instrument of Pleasure

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Seven.”</p><p>He looked up to meet the impassive gaze of his tormentor. “What?”</p><p>“You’ve licked your lips seven times in the last ten minutes.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instrument of Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> For the Rare Ship Bingo Prompt: Instrument

 

Evenly-measured raps played a precise tattoo at the door, pulling John out of the dangerous crime-ridden world of his pulp detective novel and back to the not-entirely-dissimilar reality of 221B. With a sigh, he laid the book on the arm of his chair and rose to meet his uninvited guest. Not that _he_ was ever invited to their flat, but that didn't seem to stop him from dropping by whenever he liked. John could swear these little visits were increasing in frequency, but he hadn't really been keeping track enough to be sure. Sherlock probably had some complex mental chart with detailed analysis explaining the whims of his brother's behaviour patterns, but John just had a vague feeling he couldn't shake. 

He flung the door open just as Mycroft raised his umbrella for another tap, revelling in the slight widening of those ice blue eyes, as much of a surprised reaction as he could hope to garner from a Holmes.

"Sherlock's not home." John's voice was gruff and brooked no dissent, somehow lapsing into his army cadence whenever confronted with the man before him.

"Indeed," came the cool reply as Mycroft brushed past him into the sitting room.

John cleared his throat and tried again.

"He's off running tests at Bart's, toxicology synthesis across multiple samples, he won't be back for at least an hour, maybe more."

Mycroft's only response was the slightest inclination of his head in assent.

John lingered at the door, unwilling to admit defeat.

"If you'd like to leave a message for him, I'll be sure to pass it along." God, that made him like Sherlock's bloody secretary, but he was running out of ideas of how to dismiss the elder Holmes so he could get back to his quiet evening at home. Alone.

"That won't be necessary. I'm a very patient man, John." Liquid smooth tones rolled off his tongue like expensive silk. Posh git.

Rolling his eyes with obvious distaste, John closed the door and resigned himself to an awkward hour or two playing host to The British Government.

He turned to find Mycroft settled (rather predictably) in Sherlock's armchair, looking for all the world as though he had been sat there for hours – pristine suit uncreased, posture regal yet relaxed, expression implacable as marble – a permanent fixture in Baker Street. John sighed. This was going to be a long night. 

Those hawklike eyes tracked him back to his chair. John didn't much feel like sitting opposite the man, but his book was splayed open on the armrest, and even if it hadn't been there were probably a hundred other small tells that he'd recently vacated it, and he wasn't about to let Mycroft bloody Holmes make him feel unwelcome in his own home. John sat down with an edge of defiance, crossed his legs a bit too brusquely, and picked up his book with an air that was decidedly less than polite. Sod it all, the genius would read his thoughts no matter what he did, might as well broadcast them loud and clear.

John tried to focus, he really did.

He tried to remember where he had left off in the plot, and he tried to make sense of the words on the page, and above all else he tried to ignore the laser beam stare radiating from the seat in front of him. But it was rather like trying not to think about pink elephants on command, and the more he actively tried not to think about the elephant in the room, the more he could sense every nuanced shift in the air. Something prickled at the edges of his awareness, and he let his gaze drift from the page of incomprehensible gibberish to the distracting movement at the corner of his vision. Long slender fingers stroked up a polished wooden shaft, wrapping around a curved handle before sliding back down. John quickly snapped his attention back to his book, rereading the same sentence that had stumped him for the past few minutes. The motion continued in his periphery, a hypnotic rhythm now established, which seemed to pull at his eyes as though by physical force. Twice more he caught himself staring at those impossibly smooth and perfectly tapered fingers, pink and pale on the underside and lightly speckled on the back. Hands which had never seen a day of manual labour, hands which had likely never been marred with so much as a paper cut, let alone a callous. Hands which were finely manicured and no doubt had their own moisturising regimen.

John cleared his throat and turned back to his book.

“Seven.”

He looked up to meet the impassive gaze of his tormentor. “What?”

“You’ve licked your lips seven times in the last ten minutes.”

John could feel warmth rising to his face. God, he hoped he wasn’t blushing. 

“Right, just a bit thirsty. Tea?” He hastily stood, abandoning his book as he made his escape to the kitchen. He busied himself with the routine – water, kettle, mugs – while he desperately tried to clear any thoughts of piercing eyes or dexterous fingers from his head.

“Earl grey?”

“Please,” came the reply from the doorway, and John tensed as he felt the weight of that calculating intelligence focussed on him again. He plunked the teabags in the mugs, steadied his breath, and turned to face the hostile force that had invaded his home. 

Mycroft was suddenly quite a lot closer than he had been a moment ago, and the startling proximity would have made a lesser man jump, but John didn't so much as flinch. John Watson had stared down death more times than he cared to recall, sewn wounds with a steady hand while explosions rocked the barracks, and routinely faced off against murderers and psychopaths in close combat. He may currently be eye-to-eye (and practically chest-to-chest) with the most powerful man he had ever met, but damned if he would be ruffled by this poncy tosser.

The problem was, Mycroft didn't look all that poncy at the moment. Gone was the dramatic flair that John had found so laughably ridiculous at that first meeting in the warehouse, the arched brow and aloof bravado, those first attempts at manipulation and intimidation. The pomp and sneer was replaced by… well, heat was the only word that came to John's mind. Something potent, seething with an intensity heretofore unobserved in the unflappable bureaucrat. Something dangerous.

“Eight.”

 _Damnit_.

“You have quite the oral fixation, Doctor Watson.”

“You’re one to talk about fixations, Mycroft. What is it with you and that bloody umbrella? Can’t seem to stop fingering it.”

Mycroft twirled the accessory in question thoughtfully, before reaching around John to hook it on the oven door handle, his cuff grazing John’s sleeve. Rather than releasing the brolly and retreating into his own space, he leaned on the oven door, fingers still wrapped around the curved wooden neck. He was close enough that John could smell his aftershave, something rich and refined and heady – and undoubtedly cost more than a month of John’s pay. Probably some of that high tech fancy sort that contained pheromones and was engineered by scientists to be addictive. Clearly it was the only logical explanation for why John felt the overwhelming need to fill his lungs with that scent again and again. John forced himself to breathe through his mouth.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as they scanned John’s face, lingering at his mouth to trace each curve, as though memorising its shape. John clenched his jaw, determined not to crack from the too-close examination. It took all his self-control not to run his tongue over his lips under that searing scrutiny, but he held steady. His mouth didn’t even twitch. Finally Mycroft’s gaze returned to meet John’s. 

“You sucked your thumb until the age of nine, when you were finally broken of the habit not by your sister’s incessant teasing but by your mother painting your nail with chili oil. You played the clarinet from the age of eleven until sixteen, when band practice began to interfere with sixth form rugby, and your ability to pursue the more popular girls. You used to chew on your mouth guard incessantly, resulting in a lifelong habit of grinding your teeth, the ironic consequence of which is that you now require a nighttime mouth guard, which naturally you chew upon in your sleep. All of your pens are pockmarked with your dental imprints, and your pencils fare much worse. You bite your nails down to the bed and worry the cuticles with your teeth when there’s nothing left to occupy your voracious appetite. I hardly need mention the lip licking at this point, except to note the frequency of that particular compulsion appears to increase with your heart rate as an indicator of arousal. Shall I continue?”  

John let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding with an audible shudder. Mycroft leaned in closer, lips nearly brushing his ear.

"Pity you stopped your clarinet practice. Do you miss having something in your mouth, John? Do you crave it?"

John Watson is nothing if not grace under pressure, and at that increased proximity, his entire body settled into a state of controlled calm. He knew where this was going now, and it would be entirely on his terms.

“What about you, hmm? The flute?” Mycroft pulled back slightly, and John smiled with smug satisfaction. “That’s right, Sherlock told me you used to play. Seems you have a passion for something long under your fingers and between your lips.” 

Mycroft straightened up with affront. “Hardly the same thing, Doctor Watson. As you are undoubtedly aware, the clarinet belongs to the reed family of woodwinds, whereas the flute is an aerophone. Simply the matter of passing air over a waiting hole to produce sound.” He gave a sly grin. “None of the oral ritual required for a reed, the conditioning, the moistening of the reed, saturating with saliva, the preparation required before playing. And let us not forget the sensation of the reed buzzing on your tongue, the vibrations transmuting into music under your lips.” 

John chuckled, low and dark. Springing into action, he grabbed Mycroft by the lapels and shoved him against the wall, earning himself a surprise gasp. _Finally_. Christ, how long had he wanted to do that? Best not think too hard on it at the moment.

"Still the same concept," he panted into Mycroft's face. "Put your lips together and blow."

Their mouths came crashing together in a flurry of teeth and tongues, Mycroft scrabbling for purchase as John pinned him to the wall. The fact that the other man had at least a head on him was irrelevant; John was in complete control. It was rough and messy and relentless. John ground into him, overpowered him, and Mycroft’s knees started to give out as he sagged under the onslaught.

John’s hands roved over the bespoke three-piece suit, fisting the fabric and mussing the precise folds. He wanted this man creased and rumpled and thoroughly undone. His fingers flew over the buttons of the trim waistcoat, freeing them with assured efficiency until the garment flapped open. _At last_. And since when had he craved that? All that mattered was the man was unravelling under his touch, his carefully composed façade falling away to reveal the helpless need below. John grabbed him by the tie and yanked hard, so that he was now staring down into blue eyes blown wide with shocked arousal.

“Time to put that clever tongue to use.” He released the strip of silk, now wrinkled beyond repair, and with a hand on each shoulder he pushed the other man to his knees. Mycroft went willingly, and wasn’t that just gorgeous? The British Government, bowed low before him, and now licking _his_ lips like a two-pence whore. Fucking beautiful.

Those long tapered fingers came up to his belt, but John swatted them away. He undid the buckle with methodical precision, slowing his actions to just this side of maddening. Mycroft watched with hungry eyes, his focus fixed on the denim-clad bulge. John released the button and slowly lowered the zip, taking his time to feel each tooth click through the threads. Mycroft’s breath was ragged beneath him, breathy little pants that made John’s prick twitch with anticipation. Oh, this was going to be good. 

When John finally pulled out his cock through the slit in his boxers, Mycroft let out a desperate whimper. He looked up at John through sandy gold lashes, his gaze a blatant plea.

John would not disappoint. 

He threaded his fingers into finely coiffed hair with one hand, and gripped his cock with the other. He held Mycroft in place while he stroked himself lazily, base to tip and back again, the other man squirming under his forcibly imposed restraint.

“You want it, don’t you?” His voice was a low growl, soft-spoken and rough-edged.

Mycroft attempted to nod, pulling on John’s grip in his hair. John tightened his grasp.

“Say it,” he whispered. He dragged the head of his cock along smooth cheek and jaw, across the corner of that mouth, caressing those lips but not allowing more than the lightest touch. “Tell me how badly you need it.”

“Yes…” Mycroft gasped. “I need it.” Mycroft’s breath was hot on his prick, each word accented with little puffs of air that sent shivers down John’s spine. “ _Please_.”

That did it. John pressed forward, not loosening his hold one bit, and Mycroft parted his lips eagerly. It was warm and oh so wet, his mouth clearly watering at the thought of sucking John down. Brilliant. John slid in and out slowly, setting a teasing pace, only allowing the tip to enter. Mycroft struggled to wrap lips and tongue around the glans, trying to anticipate John’s movements, but John varied his strokes, pulling out to rub the shiny head across Mycroft’s cheek and under his chin before thrusting back in. Mycroft moaned in frustration, attempting to swallow more of John’s cock with fervent suction, but John held steady. He could feel the pleasure building; the warmth spreading up from his balls was matched by the thrill that rippled through him at the hand fisted in Mycroft’s hair. A loud slurping sound broke his concentration, and _Christ_ , he couldn’t resist the allure of those spit-slicked lips any longer. He gave his cock one final squeeze at the base, hoping to stave off his impending orgasm long enough to do this right, and brought his hand up to meet the other at the back of Mycroft’s head. And then he began to fuck his face in earnest.

Mycroft’s hands flew to John’s hips for balance, which was only allowed for the fact of their light, unassuming pressure. _Next time,_ some distant part of John’s brain mused, _we’ll have to have those bound_. And then John stopped thinking entirely as he gave himself over to the primal need to thrust and rut and bury himself in as deep as possible. All that remained was heat and wet and _more_.

There was a choking noise, and the sound of Mycroft Holmes gagging on his cock was just what John needed to send him over the edge. He came in hard, violent waves of pleasure that wracked his body and shot sparks up his spine and out his fingertips, still tightly clenched in that fine hair. His face tingled and his toes went numb and every inch of his skin vibrated with a shivery electricity. He only loosened his grip when he felt himself losing that over-stretched hardness, slowly softening in Mycroft’s mouth. John released his head, and Mycroft collapsed back on his heels, letting John’s spent prick fall from his lips. God, was he a sight. His face was flushed crimson, lips wet and swollen, and his hair was mussed beyond repair, sticking up in ways that John would never have imagined possible. Utterly disheveled. _Perfect_.

John reached over to swipe the handkerchief from Mycroft’s breast pocket, shaking it out with a flap before wiping his cock with the silky fabric. He was thorough, mopping up the saliva that had dripped down his balls and accumulated around the base, until the small square was nearly saturated. He tossed the crumpled cloth back at Mycroft, who picked it up and dabbed gingerly at his mouth, but John caught his eyes fluttering closed as he inhaled the lingering scent of John’s musk. John grinned, and tucked himself back into his denims with a satisfied zip. Mycroft attempted to refold the pocket square before stuffing it back in his suit and rising to his feet. He met John’s gaze with eyes still hooded with sultry intent. John felt himself blush again – which he thought rather unfair and a bit ridiculous, given what they’d just done – but there was something about those normally cold cerulean eyes burning with such intensity that made his blood heat. He cleared his throat.

“Well, that wasn't how I saw the night going."

Mycroft let out a soft chuckle, somehow quietly sinister… and seductive.

"Oh my dear Doctor Watson, we aren't done for the night. My brother won't be back for at least another forty minutes, and your refractory period is twenty." He pressed in close, erection grinding into John's hip, sending a shuddering aftershock up his wrecked frame. His lips grazed John's ear as he whispered darkly, "Let's see how well you remember the clarinet."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!


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